Another Landscape
by Lina-the-dEmEnTeD AUTHOR
Summary: Russell Hobbs knows of what haunts him. How many confrontations must the drummer face, whether they be hidden behind the Drum set, or otherwise?
1. Chapter 1

**A/N:**

Stupid external affairs keep me from secluding myself like a cockroach, huddled over the radiating glow of my screen, haunted by words that may not form...lord I miss the good ole days when I could write whenever I pleased. Can't wait till the post apocalyptic future landscape. GOOD BYE SOCIAL ORDER!!

**Description:** Sorry, got carried away in the moment. Well this fic will surround the inner machinations of the sepulchers that plague Russel's mind and very soul, as he follows a winding spiritual path. Perhaps to enlightenment. Maybe the ultimate truth. Maybe even for a few moments solitude. Maybe I'm wasting good vocabulary words upon this garrulous prologue!!

**Disclaimer:** I do not own the rights to Russel Hobbs or the Gorillaz in any likeness or form.

The Gorillaz © Jamie Hewlett and Damon Albarn

_Chapter One:_

"I don't belie-...no way.."

The milk white eyes of the drummer went wide as platters, upon stumbling across a very intriguing discovery.

Both lead singer and guitarist looked up from the crumbling magazines, dating back to the 70's through 80's, the two had been thumbing through for laughs.

That particular misty November morning consisted of the trio sorting through heaps of dilapidated relics inside a curious mildew soaked box. This semi-hiatus was _originally_ devoted to a small holiday from the series of cataclysmic weeks previous... however distractions arose.

--

As for the weeks previous, they consisted of endless rehearsals resulting in screaming matches between band members, random exorcisms, attempted in Russel's reoccurring cases, or in

Murdoc's enforced. Not to mention meetings and several contract signing deals that had the foursome treading along the country, and plane hopping across the globe, rarely stopping to sit for meals, let alone sight seeing, much to the youngest member, Noodle's chagrin.

The baggage confusion in Motmartre, France was the final straw of patience, snapped in twain, tossed angrily to the dead ground, and sullied by an ominous spit-wad of aggravation.

Every last instrument, and speaker system device, had somehow been confused for several crates of pineapples, and were in the process of being shipped to Kolkata India the night before their concert. This incident of course incited the wrath of the Axe Princess herself, and the enraged bassist and drummer, all sharing a ferocious love of their precious instruments.

(Coincidently a shipping clerk, pinpointed responsible, was reported missing shortly after the confusion...or in his case "Misplaced", as was written on the only remaining clue. A single sheet of bloodstained notepad paper, found at his empty desk. The single word scrawled in crude handwriting, very similar to Murdoc's.)

Meanwhile 2D had made use of the crates of fruit at hand. From smoothie blending by the bucketfuls, to bombarding moving cars below the window of their hotel suite. The latter of course abruptly ending after irritable sticky bystanders became suspicious of the increasing amounts of fruit _bombing_ the exact same location. That and the fact that 2D was only five stories above ground, and easily recognized by his unique features, blue locks, gap teeth and vacant black eyes. Most even reported to hearing the singer above, laughing and making exploding noises.

Finally, on Friday, around 4:30 or so in the morning, while in the midst of a rare silence pooling in the living room of KONG studio, all four world-weary Gorillaz exchanged glances, and set to work barricading and boarding up every last open orifice of the KONG studio. Cutting themselves off from the outside world for the entirety of the weekend.

By the seventh hour, each window was well boarded, and the Benny Hill soundtrack ended (The archaic cassette tape was well jammed inside the surround stereo system. It's origins a mystery to the Gorillaz. Despite it's catchy delightfulness, after several hours of the same music blasting their eardrums, and the increasingly distracting, and confusing chase sequences, all four band members took great delight in tearing the entire stereo down, and stomping the tedious background music to smithereens.) and thus the Gorillaz would finally rest.

For one full blissful day.

Or maybe for a week or so.

The extent of their holiday depended upon when scores of agents, managers, and paparazzi would decide to come and "gather their battering rams, and bollocks", as Murdoc eloquently put.

Speaking of the devil, the bassist had taken to his private quarters to further _indulge_ in his holiday in solitude. It was expected though, whether the band was quarantined in the KONG building, or otherwise.

Left to their devices, Noodle was the first to suggest they rehearse, as it seemed "blasphemous to neglect their creative musical impulses".

However she was overruled when she turned to see two of her guardians/band-brothers lounging in the next room watching tv. Less than reluctantly, she joined the two in channel surfing the glories of one thousand channels on their bright, honking plasma screen.

After a half an hour of cartoons, and the first portion of the movie "The Birds", just as the heroine was assaulted by the first seagull, there was a jarring crackle, followed by gasping and indecipherable shouting from the intercom.

Not deviating in the least from the casual greetings, as most visitors arriving sounded none too different. Whether it was offending stench of rubbish, or the terrifying aura of supernatural activity, imposing upon the living world, most people never relished in walking towards, let alone near the entrance of KONG. Except of course the die hard fans with no sense, olfactory or otherwise, or the one's being propelled from giant catapults. (Most of which seldom survived)

"'D?" said Russell.

"Noods?"sighed 2D.

"Russell?" moaned Noodle.

All three spoke at once, eldest to youngest, never deterring their view from the screen. Groaning simultaneously, in disturbingly impressive unison, each shot a clenched hand into the space between them.

"Once, twice...shoot!"

The husky broad hand and the dainty quick fingers both formed two pairs of scissors, while the clumsy hand attached to 2D, mock karate chopped the space in-between, his wide palm flattened like paper. Two beats floated by before he realized their victory.

"_Wha-ait!_ I thought the winner was to answer the door!" he had protested in a squeak, his hand wilted, visibly disappointed.

"'D, tell you what." reasoned Russell. "I'll... umm-I'll time you...on your mark..."

"Russ, I'm a bit insulted you fink that _thats_ gonna work on me."

"Get set..."

"...I'm. Not. Movin'..."

"GO!" both Russell and Noodle shouted excitedly. And as predictable as a teen slasher film, 2D bolted for the emergency stairs, leading to main lobby. The two remaining chuckled lightly at their maneuver, turning back to the progressing plot of Hitchcock's feather fiend film.

One of the sparingly few helpful hints of advice Murdoc had endowed the two with, was how to manipulate their Stu-Pot to do their bidding once and a while. He was very eager and willing to please when the task at hand was simple enough.

Of course since both were each endowed with moral conscious all their own, as heart and soul of their band, Russell and Noodle never entertained the idea of consistent manipulation of their band mate and brother.

Their more sadistic band mate, on the other hand was simply entertained by it, and more than happy to substitute for them. The evil warped brain of the Gorillaz. Bearing the load, making up for their lack of sadism never seemed to vex Murdoc, and seemed only economical.

The blank faced singer had reached the lobby, heaving from his sprint down half the stairs, and slightly limping from stumbling over his own two feet, and falling down the remaining. Wincing he knew yet another bruise would soon blush his willowy thigh.

He once pondered on quitting smoking, but after a few hours of trying found he was unable to do so. On some occasions he would snap out of one of his zoned-out trances after a concert, and find a cigarette clenched between his remaining teeth. Obviously controlling learned impulses and habits was out of the range of his, lets say "Stunted" intellect.

Though despite his forgetful faults, his blissful nature more that allowed the singer to grasp the philosophical sparks of a nirvana and deep understanding of things, verily beneficial to the inspiring progression of the band. Perhaps due to an astounding chemical reaction to heavy doses of pills, clouds of intoxicating smoke, and other such inebriants he ingested hourly, be they liquid gas or solid. No one but the singer would know, and he wasn't articulate enough to express such formulated theories, lest they were analyzed tirelessly, and compiled into lyrics, and sold for fame and fortune.

Since their anarchic rebellion the previous night, and vow of fleeting-but-sweet solitude from the outside world, the glass lobby had been boarded up as well.

So secure, in fact, that no light could penetrate, save one man-made,( or in this case "lady-made"), peephole on the front door. Roughly the size of a petite Japanese teenager's fist, used to, "Glare offensively at interlopers" as Noodle cheerfully remarked.

He tore his deep stare from the dust specks, floating along streams of light, like mindless krill, and peered through the wooden planks. Breathing in the scent of rotten pine, he detected the slight lingering pungency of vibrant red spray paint, used to depict the overused obscenity "Sod off nob!", a phrase proudly coined by 2D himself.

Dank eyes could _just_ make out a frantic thrashing silhouette in a postal uniform, vanishing over the horizon. A swarm of volatile birds were fixated on attacking every vulnerable inch of the postal worker's body (A majority of the birds not pecking at him, were preoccupied with spewing a curious purple bile on the man).

2D hadn't heard any muffled screams of agony following, and presumed the unlucky mail man was either dead or had gotten away. He turned his attention to what sat directly below the peephole

Both Russell and Noodle turned to the lank blue haired singer straining and groaning as he heaved an oversized cardboard parcel through the stair landing, and to the center of the living room.

It was heavy, possibly loaded to the point of it's contents bursting through, or so they assumed, from the look of 2D's struggle. Though their friend was obviously not built for physical labor. Thus making the mystery package all the more enticing.

Flipping his switchblade from his pocket, and ignoring the disembodied Australian voice of some passing entity from beyond commenting "Yeh call that a knife?", he gutted the package tenderly.

A cloud of dust flooded from the box. Fanning the dust away, and shooing it into the abyss, the three recovered from a fit of coughing and chocking to peer into the worn box.

Russell squinted.

Noodle released a low, astounded whistle.

Stuart reached into the box.

--

"AWW! Lookit'...LOOKIT' THIS ONE!!"

2D, caught in hysterics, traded the 1979 issue of Hitchcock magazine, an unflattering caricature of Alfred himself plastered on the cover, for a jaded, and spineless collection of sheets from a 1985 cosmopolitan magazine. Furrowing her brow she gladly accepted the ancient reading material.

Russell, meanwhile, was examining the package, as if the cardboard parcel would self destruct from the slightest breeze.

"D, where's the return address on this?" he asked. "Did it come with a label, anything?"

For all they knew, the three had unknowingly inhaled a dangerous poison, or anthrax. Or more disturbing a bomb lay hidden within it's confines. On their journey to fame they had made influential friends and allies, as well as dangerous enemies.

"Hm? Didn't come wif one..." 2D answered, well preoccupied with outdated articles, and shoveling his pinky fingernail into his ear, unearthing a wad of wax.

Noodle, as if adhering to telepathic summoning, scanned the outside of the box.

The box itself looked as if it was a decade older than all the Gorillaz combined (Even Murdoc), filthy with dust and dirt, and jarringly torn from mis-care. How it managed to travel all this way, and into their studio in one piece was a mystery. The base of the tattered container was bloated, still damp from possibly sitting in a puddle for who knew how long. Much like post mortem atrophy of a corpse.

After the girls sight danced to and fro along the box's frame, her green orbs behind purple locks flitting arduously, she looked up with a shrug.

"Perhaps it's been dumped here. I doubt a fan is responsible though." she spoke thoughtfully. Russell agreed with her hypothesis. Unless their mystery fan was a disgruntled jerk, or terribly clever, and knew the band-mates would be left stumped, scratching their heads over the pandora's box or gift.

"So... 'D I'm guessing this doesn't belong to you." Russell began, ever so delicately thumbing through the dozens upon dozens of magazines, and newspapers dominating the box. A celebration of mangling printed paper dating from 10 to 30 years ago, collections of greying white, to piss yellow.

And since the box had nearly half a century staggering over Noodle's age, he assumed the junk didn't belong to her. Obviously Russell had never seen a hairs breath of the collection, leaving only one absent candidate.

Obviously this box must belong to Murdoc.

That left the option of retrieving the irritable maybe-owner of the box, which could lead to either one of two outcomes. A disembodied string of curses and damnations upon ones pitiful soul for disturbing his R&R. Or silence followed by the sound of Black Sabbath's greatest hits, cranked up so loudly it shook the gravel amidst the parking garage, and the Winnibago from whence the dark music radiated.

And no soul, whether living, deceased, or De La, would ever want to throw themselves ass first into the tempest of pointless exasperation.

Convinced enough with Murdoc's history of apathy, (As well as apathy towards his own history) and surrendering to curiosity, Russell joined his two band mates on the floor, in rummaging through the delivery.

Gingerly a hand plunged deep within the stinking box, half expecting the surprise ambush of a hibernating animal to leap from hiding. (Knowing Murdoc, this was a possible factor)

He dug within the folds of disorganized bramble of print and photo, feeling around for anything of particular interest. Close enough to the box, he felt a wave of surreptitious nostalgia creep through his mind, then take flight, much like a racoon crossing a barren highway, and vanishing once again into the woods.

Lest it stood still and became road-kill.

Something told him this package was not meant for Murdoc.

His fingers, calloused from years of taxidermy craft, and a tenaciously grip of drumsticks, brushed along the coarse surface of a binder. It's pliable, yet denser surface, allowed it to stand out amidst the nest of magazines and newspapers. It's true form surfaced as Russel pulled the formal folder from the box. The once vibrant green had faded to a shade of decaying mold of a minty color, stained from some foreign substance along the edges.

That uneasy feeling returned to him, coursing throughout his very veins, and spreading like fiery toxins. A bold intrusion of living animosity, and reanimated paranoia. A bastardized, grotesque hybrid of the two, it's only purpose in existence to make Russell Hobbs suffer without repercussion.

Suddenly he could feel the very core of every callous, every scar etched into the palms on his hands, burning with an unexplainable chill. Then his warm hands felt foreign. Plastered together furiously, as if by a mad sculptor, and not the doing of a child long ago, wringing anything in reach of the countless beds he was strapped to.

"I don't belie-...no way.." he spouted, fingers barely tracing the listless shaken handwritten print of permanent marker entitling the marked, sickly green folder. As if searching for the crease of a sticker, so he might tear it off. Clawing at something unexplainable.

Clearing his name, to which he had worked his whole life to make good.

As if calling to him through the torrents of slicing wind and rain, he could sense a voice. Noodle's maybe. Asking of what he had found. Or perhaps where he was. A more befitting question in the least he felt.

He felt. He couldn't think as he normally would, or could at the moment. His thoughts bubbling, transparent, a glassblower's labors. Unbreakable tumors of nothing, crowding now limited physical space in his head. Was he even breathing?

Nonetheless he felt the jagged painful chill of ice, yet amorphous motion of water, form beings, charading as words in his mind, and seep through his mouth, into sound.

"The Seventh Heaven Hip Hop and Harmony." he said, or at least he thought he had. He could scarcely feel his mouth form the words, or hear his afterthoughts released into the universe. Let alone the flutter of the magazine Noodle had been holding, crumple like an injured bird to the floor.

However those words indeed existed, like the beautiful horrors that shadowed Russell to the ends of the earth.

- - - - - - - -

To be continued...?

Please Read and Review, tell me what you think. I'd certainly like to go on.


	2. Chapter 2

AN: And heeeeres Chapter Two. ::AXED::

Well in advance, I was having a bit of trouble not only introducing Murdoc to the plot-line, let alone utilizing accents. (I hope nobody's offended.) For some reason the lines I gave him always came out sounding like a Pirate. Which, actually, wouldn't be bad at all.

On another note, since Noodle has regained her memories, and as she is fluent in about every language known to man, she obviously has an eloquent manner of speaking.

So mateys, this be an interval in the fic. Arghh! Walk the chapter!

**Chapter Two**

Death. One of the many great mysteries man-kind has striven to both understand, and divert. Through journeys of self discovery, philosophical debate, hours of meditation, and countless amounts of angry teen music, we have yet to puncture the surface of whys and whens. Our kind hides well. Hibernating within the folds of the security blanket that is belief and facts. Away from any grand equalizer.

"I-is he dead?"

"No...he...Russell? Russell!? Wake up! Please..."

"QUICK LEMMI CHECK HIS PULSE!"

"2-D, his kneecap does not have a pulse. We should...I can't seem to move his arms. He is ...utterly frozen..."

"But he's just starin' into space..."

_Objects existed, pulsed, and yet held little meaning. One...two figures...the smaller, deft and fluid. No more than a candle's flickering flame, yet wiled the strength to hold tight to his bobbing head. It's contents jumbled like an old woman's purse. _

_People used to rhyme to such fascinating phrases...had he ever rhymed like that. Sadly most people are convinced the only poetry worth reading must rhyme, and remain in beat and sustain rhythm._

_Why had his brain not streamed through her careful fingers? Surely he was liquid matter. Molecules that slid hopelessly past one another. Unlike the unified solids, or the liberated gases surrounding him. Perhaps the smaller you were, the greater you might handle physical logic. Perhaps if the next lifetime exists, he'll be reincarnated as a single celled organism. Then in the lifetime after next, regenerating the life's previous choices, mistakes, actions and morals, he might..._

_Wait...these two that moved...no...these two that lived. They did have meaning...to him at least...no...yes...yes. _

_The window in the kitchen...above the sink, loaded to the brim with crusting dishes. Enough wasted scraps to feed a third world country... and all the forgotten bottles of beer and liquor, some empty, and clouded, like a blind man's vulture eyeball. Others, catching light prisms with the pooling remains of the previous amber night. All the bottles, neatly lined up like soldiers. _

_What and who were they dying for? No one wanted their glass, or shimmering light._

_That window has a curtain. It billows sweetly, like a polite woman flouncing through a park, passing only once, and never to be seen again in this lifetime. Beautiful in it's moment, but held little meaning. It too moved but had little meaning. Then why did he, every morning, stare with such gaping interest at it, in the stillness of unmeaning full mornings, sipping his favorite coffee._

_The second figure, longer and dimmer in it's height than the first, paced like a comical marionette. Jumbling on unseen, or unnoticed tangling strings, every other footstep thudding below...yet passing through mindless air currents, and waltzing amongst the breezes. The tendril strings seemed to trace his form, like veins of a Bodhi tree, extending to heaven and then shying before even thinking to DARE stretch to their full limit._

"Guhhh...And just what is goin' on here?"

"Muds, he-he's not waking up...w-we were goin' through this box, and it didn't look-"

"Alraigh' shit! One bloody thing at a time...Noodle, might you explain, lovie, why my drummer's been reduced to a petrified turd?"

_A third figure had sauntered in. All too mortal, yet strained and rooted as a gnarled tree, draining from his surroundings with every gurgled notion of life. _

_He...too held meaning somewhat...warily, seemingly dark and frighteningly solid through and through. An unlit bulb. Charred though, boasting his power to emblazon, and scorch whenever he pleased. His defiance made him both respected and feared. Hated and beloved._

"Should we call an ambulance?"

"Hmm...NO! I've er...ahehehem...got a bit of a mess down there, and it's best we keep proper authorities at bay. He just needs a good ole wakey-uppy."

"Got it! Check his pupils."

"..."

"Are you that feckin' stu-"

"Murrr-doc. What do _you _propose we do to awaken him. Cold water may send him into shock."

"I though' he was already in shock..."

"...Ok, I've got it. First of all, 2D go fetch us some black coffee. Secondly, to answer your question, no, it's not for us, I'll explain later. Thirdly, for the love of the Man-downstairs-who-owes-me-big, STOP MAKING SUGGESTIONS!"

_Perhaps not all souls, ghosts, and bugga-boos are a gaseous matter. The body secreted liquids and solids as well. Anything could seep through the vulnerable beast that was man. Water was a powerful, essential cycling element. Abandon ideas of reincarnation. Spray my soul. Vapor thin, colliding with solid, till the end of all time might come. _

_Or splattered, bespeckling the new rug, by a murderous villain most foul. They'll scrub all they like, those who loved or hated him, but the stain will remain forever._ He had been there.

"Here's the coffee. It's his favorite."

"The whole pot? Strong? Good. Noodle, tilt his head back will you."

"What are you going to do?"

"I used to try this on Stu-Pot, to arouse him from his coma."

"_WHAT!?_ You never told me-How many times did you do THAT!"

"Hmmm...I lost count after the first 3 days, but it went on for a good week or so."

"...no wonder I lost all taste for it..."


	3. Chapter 3

1A/N: A good chef knows when to put down the fez hat and red book, 'n git her ass back to plowin' them words!

Chapter 3

_..."Is that what I think it is?"..._

The side walk buzzes with the moon yellow electricity. Well above the Brooklyn trees and Brooklyn sky.

It always has.

An old man laughs. Laughter like that can only belong to one type. Like the crackle of paper and the dry crunch of powder.

I join the man at his table, below a dead street-lamp on a dead street. The table itself, the kind found in an expensive restaurant, is without a candelabra or a single red rose (Or restaurant). But it is not empty. Not dead.

The static of a boom-box, honored at a third seat, purred a charge of static energy. Russel watched as the weathered man twisted it's knobs with the dexterity of a safe cracker, searching for the code.

"Ike wh-"

He waved a leathery palm, silencing him. "Not here. I'm still keeping a low profile."

Russel didn't move. He fixed his eyes on something scribbled on the pristine, crisp tablecloth. He could see it but not understand the doodle.

"Once you give someone, or something a name" the man paused, taking a long shaman's drag of his cigarette "...man, it's fixed. You can't undo things. No, no..."

Noise began hiccuping from the radio.

**...ep in m...ocket **

**and- **_BZZZZZTTT_**-on't...e late,  
**

**We're **

**pullin' out **

**abo...a ha-**_BZZZTT_**-ight. **_BZZZZZT_

The old man knocked at it, until the music flowed. Time had not aged him. The world did. 

**Goin' on the corner and havin' some fun,  
Takin' my Rocket on a long, hot run.  
Ooooh, goin' out,  
Oozin' and cruisin' and havin' fun!**

"A rapport between man and machine..." the man said, taking another deep-deep drag. Another boot crunch in an icy snow bank of laughter followed.

Russel barely noticed. Still staring at the table-cloth. A single chaste daisy, held in a vase was drawn on the fabric in blue ink. Not a very impressive sketch. No bigger than his index finger. Flat. Messy. But not pointless. Someone took the time to make it. As an artist would, as far as he could tell.

"**Utilitarian or aesthetic?"**

Ike was gone and the music had stopped.** "Is what we create useful or purely for expression?"** Russel looked up to see the radio had taken the old man's seat. Was it talking to him?** "Ladies. Gents. Ever wonder what's going on under the damned inventor's tarp?" **Oh. An endorsement.** "How much will yooooou benefit?" -'**the hell was this guy selling? _**"Why does what we create even exist at all? What will it do for you?"**_ The voice throbbing from the radio was bellowing and familiar.

It's red eye pulsed on each decibel. **"Do we exist to create something new, or have all the good ideas been used? Shared and stolen alike!"**

Russel hated the philosophical banter of this broadcasted hack evangelistic preacher. And for some reason that sickened him.He kept visualizing blue.Not powder or robin's egg, but devoid of circulation and oxygen. A life drowned.

**My friends, the meandering shade of a great decadent end is upon us. **Here it comes, 'repent sinnahs' Russel thought with humor. **No need to beg forgiveness though. **This caught Russel's attention. Who was this? The voice rung great bells and gongs, but nothing stirred.** Art is passed down, and resurrected to life, through both structure and sound. Remembered...**

Shit, it's not...** And forgotten...**

_**Well, what's the difference between a re-animated zombie and a risen savior anyways, huh?**_

He sounded just like.

_**Consume ALL knowledge and creativity! GLUTTONOUSLY TAKE YOUR FILL OF THE FEAST LAIN BEFORE YOU THAT IS MAN-KIND! **_

Del.

Russel heard his voice, without a shade of doubt. It certainly sounded like his long absent soul mate. Voice. Accent. Deep baritones. His laugh. But it wasn't him. It could never be him, he had long ago accepted that. And Del never twisted thoughts and ideas like this!

**Such talents the dead have no claim to, as they cannot be seen or heard! **

Only absorbed. But, hey-who could blame you Russel...so...what're you hiding under the table?

The boom-box had been swept from the table, now rendered a soulless abomination, screeching angrily from the pavement. In his frenzy he had taken the white table cloth with him, wrung over and twisted in his clenching fists.

"WHO ARE YOU GOD DAMMIT!" he bellowed.

A single gunshot exploded through the air. Slivers of glass, caught in an updraft, flew like uplifted dust in the road. His couldn't follow his instinct to move, each joint paralized, yet he was untouched by the rapier slices of tinkling glass. **As always.**

The lamp above had been ignited, as time rewound itself. The shatter of glass had melted back into it's hanging dome.

The lamp slunk to life, it's intensity burning him from above. As did the song.

He looked below to see the material in his hands was a hood.

It's transformation had not disturbed him as much as it's change in shade. It was now a black hood.

Wet with despair, furiously stinking of gunpowder and the sweet-rotten smell of flesh. Before he could begin to gag on the bile taking rise in his throat, the hoodie was yanked from his grasp and whipped around the bend. As if a lure hooked to a fishing line.

He knew what happened after the squeal of tires, and the roar of the exhaust. He and all ghosts knew.

**Nothing.**

He couldn't move. The burn of light petrified his joints in place. The warmth and wet elasticity summer promised had vanished. Nature had become the aggressor antagonist. His hands still wrung around a black hood that no longer remained. His white bulbs, eyes that radiated no light, ground against their sockets, slowly locking...

...onto a brick wall.

'Russel Hobbs woz 'ere'. Written in blood. He had recognized his own handwriting.

**So, here's your heart for everyone to see...your penmanship...how beautiful...**

He wanted to scream till rendered blind and mute, but couldn't move. For he was already blinded and muted from light. The terrible heat swarmed without the mercy of drowning him first, forcing on him a terrible cackle. A voice without chord and dance that all men fear. A presence that falls into the backdrop, savoring every last dripping of the performance.

He wanted to release a cry that was his, and not a cackle from above. To make certain he had not downed this great evil in a gulp of tainted air to save himself.

Instead he gurgled a hot wet sputter, scalding his tongue and lips. Senses burning, past the terrible slew of memory, and the horrors shaking his very being to the core, he could distinctly taste coffee.

"Atta boy! There's a good lad! "

Russel felt a gnarled palm slap his chest, helping him cough up the piping hot brew in his windpipe. On his back, dribbles of coffee burned, then chilled his neck and shirt collar. The shirt was already worn and aged by time. It's baby blue luster faded to a grey sort of blue. A meaningful shade. Light and nightmares materialized into his common surroundings.

"I can't believe that actually worked." Murdoc murmured, placing the coffee pot on the den's coffee table, it's purpose finally fulfilled. The pot was nearly empty, or not so nearly half full, depending on the angle you looked at it.

"Russel what happened?" the often composed Noodle begged him, gently patting his cheek once to encourage him to life. She slumped against him, a clumsy gentle hug to reassure her that he was awake to return the embrace. He shut his eyes in fear of the scouring burn of light. His band-mates stepped back to give him breathing space as he sat upright.

Suddenly a polyp memory of the past five minutes bloomed.

_The Seventh._

He remembered now. His impulse to expel the album from his presence took control as he flung the album away from himself in terror. The binder sliced through the air, narrowly missing 2d, who dodged the flying thing as if it were a throwing star.

The Gorillaz looked in awe toward the once airborne "Seventh Heaven Hip Hop and Harmony", now residing on the couch. Disturbingly, the binder sat upright, as if never mishandled, let alone feared. Rather it had been honored on it's throw-pillow, flanked by magazines and overturned coffee mugs. A divine and ineffable instrument, kneeling musicians surrounding it's shrine.

"Russ?" began Murdoc, looking to the discarded thing with little caution. His eyes gleamed with curiosity, pooling above a flicker that Russel had seen in the band leader's eye before. A fiery spark, examining for any sign of avaricious profit in the fabled album. _Please man, for once don't-_

"Is that what I think it is?"


End file.
